


Fireline

by ShippersList



Series: Blue Flame [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, POV Peter Hale, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Peter Hale, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 06:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13161162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList
Summary: Peter had never meant to return. But here he was, drawn back to Beacon Hills by something that had refused to let him go. And that something had inexplicably guided him to the front door of a very familiar house.Perhaps he needed Stiles just as much as Stiles needed him.





	Fireline

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gryvon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryvon/gifts).



> If I'm honest, this isn't what I was meant to write. This turned out a lot darker than I originally thought and also, a lot shorter. A _lot_. I apologize for not getting you the story I have in my mind and giving you this set-up instead. There will be more later.

 

The house looked smaller than he remembered. It also looked sadder, closed off, almost aversive with closed curtains that barely let any light through. It wasn’t exactly a welcoming sight, but he had no intention to get any closer.

The Sheriff’s cruiser was parked in the front and beside it sat the familiar Jeep. He felt an almost palpable wave of relief at seeing the battered car, held together by spite and layers upon layers of duct tape. Why on earth that pitiful excuse of a vehicle managed to raise his spirits, he had no idea. Perhaps it was a sign of serious mental instability. Then again, this was Beacon Hills. Despite his attempts to hide in the shadows, it had always had the uncanny way to affect him. 

If he was being honest, he’d thought he was over the town. The whole ordeal with the Alpha pack, the Nogitsune catastrophe and the resulting havoc, and the shocking realization that he actually had a _daughter_ had made him flee the town only to crawl back with his tail between his legs.

It was infuriating.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the people inside. It had been a while since he’d last extended his senses like this but something about the place—about Beacon Hills itself—helped him to reach out. He heard two heartbeats, one steady and one that seemed to flutter like a panicked bird in a cage, exhausted but still trying to get away. It was familiar and soothing in its chaotic way and to his own surprise, his lips drew into a genuine smile.

On the other side of the road, the front door opened and someone stopped at the doorway, a dark silhouette against the dim light from inside. They looked right at him, and the stare felt like burning on his skin, bold and challenging in a way he wasn’t ready to answer to just yet.

He held the stare for a while before he inclined his head—not in defeat but in an acknowledgement—turned, and walked back into the shadows.

 

* * *

 

Being back in Beacon Hills was exhausting. It had never really been his home—it had been more like a place to lay low when he’d had nowhere else to go, although being officially dead hadn’t left him many options. Beacon Hills had never been big enough to truly lose himself in, but it still managed to be small and closed enough to make him feel like a perpetual outsider, never really fitting in. It was oppressive and haunting, the echoes of too many lost lives, too many ruined plans, and too many mistakes weighing him down and asking why the hell he was back.

Honestly, he had no idea.

When he had left chasing after misguided illusions of parenthood, he’d vowed never to return. Even though he’d never pictured himself as a parent, the utter failure that had been his reconnecting with Malia had shattered something inside of him. Nothing breaks a wolf quite like being spat in the face by his own prodigy.

He’d been ready to leave the continent for good and seek a new life in the old world but he’d been…unable to leave. _Something_ had drawn him in, pulled his strings until he’d had no choice but to relent and turn back. He’d crossed the town border in the silence of the night, hiding in the shadows and hoping nobody would notice he was back. A fool’s hope, of course, because after everything that had happened, somebody always took notice of a supernatural being crossing the town’s boundaries.

And a Hale returning to Beacon Hills was bound to be noticed.

As soon as he’d arrived, he’d realized Derek wasn’t home. Hadn’t been fora while, it seemed. And even though Peter hadn’t had any Alpha spark in him in a long time, the territory recognized him and welcomed him with a desperation that was disturbing to say at least. He’d always craved power and recognition but…not like this. Not like he was the last thing holding the Preserve together, not like he was the last hope the territory had.

It felt too much like a burden. It also made him understand more about how Derek had probably felt, and it did nothing to improve his mood.

For some reason, he couldn’t sleep at night and ended up wandering around the town hour after hour (patrolling, he mocked himself), always starting and finishing in the Preserve. It soothed something inside of him, calmed his nerves, and made his wolf at ease.

Why he ended up by the side of the road staring at the Stilinski house night after night, he didn’t want to think about. He would’ve wanted to claim he had no idea what he was doing, but that would’ve been a lie, and he wasn’t in the habit of lying to himself.

 

* * *

 

It was perhaps his fourth night in a row watching the silent Stilinski house when the front door opened and the Sheriff stepped out. He was partially obscured by shadows, but it wasn’t hard to see the exhausted line of his shoulders and the way his whole body sagged as he sighed.

”I know you’re out there and I know you can hear me,” the Sheriff said quietly. ”I’m not going to pretend I know what the hell is going on between you two, or what this sick, twisted, co-dependent thing is that you have, but he knows you’re back, and I need—” He paused to swallow. ”He needs you. So… just get your ass in here, Hale.”

The Sheriff didn’t sound angry, just defeated. He stood still for a moment before shaking his head and stepping back inside, muttering under his breath something about stubborn idiots, leaving behind an uneasy quiet and an open door.

Peter cocked his head and stared after him.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to go in, to face Stiles—or whatever was wearing his face now—but at the same time, he knew he was going to. It had been where he’d been headed all along. Besides, it was getting chilly; even though he had no trouble dealing with yet another night spent walking around the town and chasing the sunrise along the crisscrossing paths through the Preserve, he wouldn’t say no to the warmth of a house. And a cup of coffee wouldn’t hurt either.

He walked slowly across the road and entered without knocking the open door. There was no point: the Sheriff already knew he was there and he _had_ left the door open for a reason, hadn’t he?

He hesitated a split second as the stale smell of sadness, desperation, and bitterness poured over him and almost made him snarl. The house smelled like those abandoned buildings in which he’d had the unfortunate opportunity of sleeping a couple of times. A house without hope. Underneath, he could still scent the unique parts that were the Sheriff and Stiles, but they were almost hidden beneath the debris of human sorrow.

He decided to pretend he was surprised how viscerally his wolf reacted to it.

”You look like shit,” the Sheriff said from the kitchen doorway with a tumbler of scotch in his hand. By the scent of him, it was his first one.

Peter raised a brow. ”Looks can be deceiving,” he said, forcing the words out flippantly even though they felt alien on his tongue. He wondered how long it had been since he’d last actually talked to anyone.

The Sheriff snorted and downed his drink in one go. ”He’s upstairs,” he said gruffly, vaguely pointing with his now empty glass. ”I assume you know the way.”

Peter gave him a curt nod and started towards the stairs, but stopped when the Sheriff grabbed his arm.

The Sheriff let out a huff of non-humorous laughter at his raised brows. ”Don’t worry, I’m not going to make threats. Not because I don’t care, but because there’s nothing I can threaten you with.” He shrugged. ”It’s not a threat if it’s actually a reward, is it?”

It was all Peter could do not to flinch and meet the Sheriff’s eyes. They were hollow, almost devoid of all emotion, but there was a flicker of something akin to desperate hope. Of what, Peter had no idea.

The Sheriff held his gaze for a moment, then let go of his arm and turned away.

”I’m heading out—in case that’s something you wanted to know,” he said as he reached out to grab his jacket and shrugged it on. He didn’t take his car keys but stuffed his phone into his jeans pocket. He walked to the door, stopped, and said gruffly, without looking at him, ”For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re back.”

Without further ado, he opened the door and left.

For a moment, Peter stared at the closed door. The meeting, as brief as it had been, had left him shaken, and he wasn’t easily disturbed. The Sheriff he remembered had been a tenacious man filled with determination and perseverance, not easily swayed. What the hell had happened to break his spirit like that?

He glanced up at the direction of Stiles’s room where he could detect the familiar, fluttering heartbeat, took a slow breath, and slowly started up the stairs.

The house seemed to be holding its breath, a ridiculous sentiment, but it was the only way Peter could describe the odd feeling. The second-floor hallway was dark but he needed no light: the door to Stiles’s room was slightly ajar and even if it hadn’t been, Peter would’ve known where to find him anyway. Stiles’s heartbeat was like a drum in his ears, inexplicably drawing him forward.

He stopped with his hand reaching out for the doorknob, suddenly unsure of what to do. If what the Sheriff had said was true, Stiles already knew he was inside but it didn’t automatically give him permission to enter. It was strange because he had never bothered with permissions before, but he knew things had changed.

He had changed.

And Stiles had changed even more.

”I know you’re there,” Stiles said quietly, interrupting his thoughts. ”Just get in.”

Peter squared his shoulders and pushed the door open. The room was dark but he could make out Stiles’s silhouette against the paler walls. Like the whole house, Stiles’s room smelled of misery but it was tinted with an undercurrent of self-loathing. It made Peter’s nose itch and he suppressed the urge to flick out his claws.

”What are you doing, Peter?” Stiles asked. ”Why are you here?”

”Can’t I just pop over to see an old frenemy?”

”Cut the crap,” Stiles snapped. His voice was sharp like shards of glass and it cut through Peter’s well-cultivated veneer of smug nonchalance and sarcasm like a knife. ”The last time I saw you, you couldn’t get out of town fast enough. What happened to your grandiose plans of father-daughter bonding over the search of a missing mother?”

Peter curled his lip at the mention of Corinne. ”It didn’t go exactly as planned,” he countered.

”Why? Because she didn’t like to play house or because Malia wasn’t a daughter you could manipulate at will?”

”Both,” Peter said through gritted teeth. ”How about you? The last time I saw you, you were all hyped up and ready to end the Nogitsune. Didn’t that go as planned?”

Stiles went silent and Peter nearly gagged at the fresh wave of self-hatred. He shook his head and blinked, trying to clear his mind.

”Stiles, what happened?” he finally asked, quiet.

Stiles sprung up from the bed like a coiled spring. It took all Peter’s control not to go on full defense.

”What happened? Really?” Stiles hissed, leaning into Peter’s space.

Peter refused to flinch at the vitriol in his voice. ”That’s what I asked,” he said instead.

”I killed people,” Stiles snarled. ”That’s what happened.”

”And?”

”And? _AND?”_ Stiles said, his voice rising into a shout. ”I killed my friend, you heartless fuck.”

”And I killed my niece,” Peter answered calmly, refusing to budge.

Stiles let out a frustrated sound. ”You weren’t sane.”

”You were possessed,” Peter shot back. ”If my actions cannot be held against me when I was still myself, how on earth could you be held accountable for actions you did when it wasn’t you but a _millennia-old fox spirit_ parading around while wearing your skin?”

”Oh fuck you,” Stiles growled and shoved him roughly. It did nothing, really, but Peter moved with the impact anyway, giving Stiles the outlet he seemed to need. Stiles shoved him again and then just punched him in the chest several times before Peter decided that enough was enough. He grabbed a hold on Stiles’s wrists and held them against his chest, effectively ending his temper tantrum.

”Let me go, you asshole,” Stiles snarled and yanked his hands.

”I don’t think so,” Peter said dryly. ”Your next move would perhaps be getting that beloved aluminum baseball bat of yours and I like this hairdo too much to mess it up.”

Stiles’s eyes were furious and they flashed briefly before he said again, ”Let me _go!”_ trying to yank himself free.

To Peter’s utter amazement, a flame of blue fire erupted from Stiles’s hands and forearms. It didn’t exactly hurt him but it singed his skin, feeling hot and cold at the same time. It was all he could do to stand his ground and hold Stiles through his fit of frustrated rage until he sagged in his hold.

”You should’ve stayed away,” Stiles muttered right before his legs gave out. He would’ve fallen on the floor in an undignified heap unless Peter hadn’t caught him. The flames winked out, leaving behind a scent of ozone that made his nose itch.

He picked Stiles unceremoniously up and carried him back to his bed. Stiles was too light in his arms, like his scrawny frame had gotten even more fragile despite his wide shoulders and long limbs. He felt somehow hollow, not unlike a bird who hadn’t gotten enough to eat.

He decided not to dwell on the dark satisfaction his wolf felt when he tucked Stiles in and lay down on top of the covers, boxing him between himself and the wall.

He wasn’t sure how much sleep he’d gotten when the rancid stench of panic jolted him awake. Before he fully realized what had happened, he’d Shifted and on high alert. The room was empty and as quiet as when he’d first entered it. Stiles was asleep beside him but even as Peter frowned and looked him over to check that he was alright, he started to whimper.

He didn’t have to wonder where the overwhelming scent of panic had come from.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure of what to do, whether to wake Stiles up or let him sleep, but a split second later, the decision was made for him when Stiles started to scream. Peter grabbed him to wake him up but Stiles flailed and fought, doing his everything to get away. Had it been any other situation, Peter would’ve been impressed at the display of impressive strength but now, he just wanted the damn boy to _wake the fuck up._

When the blue flames flared to life around them, Peter gritted his teeth and _made_ himself to hold on to Stiles. The feeling of being engulfed in flames reminded him a bit too much of the previous two times when he’d been burned alive, but he _didn’t care._

”Stiles,” he called. ”Stiles! Wake up!”

It took him several tries to get through to Stiles’s nightmare before he opened his eyes and locked his bewildered stare to Peter’s gaze. His eyes were bright, almost feverish, and for a moment Peter could’ve sworn they too were on fire.

Slowly, Stiles reached out his hand and gently touched the side of Peter’s mouth, tracing the canine with his finger. ”Peter?” he asked, somewhat confused.

Peter held completely still, bewildered at the unusual direction of events. He wasn’t against Stiles touching him but he’d honestly prefer him wide awake and, well, _not on fire._

Stiles frowned, as if he’d just realized that he was still engulfed in flames. ”Huh,” he said, cocking his head, and the flames went out. ”I just don’t get where your eyebrows go when you Shift,” he muttered before lying back down, now facing Peter. It didn’t take him long to fall back asleep.

Peter sat there for a good while, staring at the strangest boy he’d ever met, before carefully lying back down.

It was definitely not the way Peter had pictured the night to go.

 

* * *

 

The next time he woke up, it was to the feeling of being watched. Stiles was snuggled close to him, his face smooched against his chest and his breath tickling the hollow of Peter’s throat.

He turned his head a fraction, just enough to see the Sheriff by the door, watching them with an inscrutable look on his face. Over the scent of a teenage boy and exhaustion, Peter smelled something wistful that was gone in an instant like a tendril of smoke blown away by a breeze.

After holding his eyes for a moment, the Sheriff averted his eyes and walked away, his steps echoing down the hallway.

Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and relaxed back against the mattress. In his arms, Stiles let out a soft sound and burrowed closer. It made something warm curl up in his chest, something he wasn’t sure he wanted to poke just yet. Instead, he tugged the blankets over them both and settled down for the early hours of the morning.

He wasn’t sure what would happen next but he was sure of one thing: Wherever Stiles went, he’d be right there by his side.


End file.
